Ole Bettman’s taken all my dough,
And left me in this stately home,
Lazing on a sunny afternoon.
And I can't sail my yacht,
He's taken everything I got,
All I've got's this sunny afternoon.

Save me, save me, save me from this squeeze.
I got all these owners trying to break me.
And I love to live so pleasantly,
Live this life of luxury,
Lazing on a sunny afternoon.
In a summertime
In a summertime
In a summertime

My latest groupie’s run off with my car,
And gone back to her ma and pa,
Telling tails of drunkenness and cruelty.
Now I'm sitting here,
Sipping at my ice cold beer,
Lazing on a sunny afternoon.

Help me, help me, help me stay away,
Well give me two good reasons why I oughta play.
'Cause I love to live so pleasantly,
Live this life of luxury,
Lazing on a sunny afternoon.
In a summertime
In a summertime
In a summertime

Ah, save me, save me, save me from this squeeze.
I got all these owners trying to break me.
And I love to live so pleasantly,
Live this life of luxury,
Lazing on a sunny afternoon.
In a summertime
In a summertime
In a summertime...

You’re a mean one Mr Buttman
You really are a heel.
You're a nasty lying lawyer,
And as charming as an eel,
Mr. Buttman!
You are as bad, as wart
With a greasy black feel!
You're a monster, Mr. Buttman!
Your heart's an empty hole.
You have no brain for hockey.
You've got resentment in your soul,
Mr. Buttman!
no wonder your mother wouldn't touch you
With a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole!
You're a vile one, Mr. Buttman!
You have beady black eyes.
You have all the tender sweetness
Of a union busting pig in disguise,
Mr. Buttman!
Given the similarity between the two of you,
it’s no shocking surprise!
You're a foul one, Mr. Buttman!
You're a nasty, wasty skunk!
You’re a receptacle for the owners socks.
So loaded full of gunk,
Mr. Buttman!
The four words that best describe you
Are as follows, and I quote,
"Is, A, Little, Prick!"
You're a bastard, Mr. Buttman!
You run the league like its slots!
Your heart's a deadly cancer,
Splotched with moldy, purple spots,
Mr. Buttman!
Your soul is an apalling dung-heap,
Overflowing with the most disgraceful
Franchises in places unimaginable,
Mangled-up with laser pucks!
You nauseate me, Mr. Buttman!
What a nauseous super lackey!
You've screwed up the game of hockey,
And you drive a crooked bargain,
Mr. Buttman!
You're a short little man
no taller than a toadstool
you’re a penis shooting blanks
and a pecker with arsenic sauce!